by Carmen Amato
“Even Loyola?” Kurt asked.
Emilia shook her head. Loyola, who was junior to Silvio, had been made acting lieutenant of detectives several months ago. He now rarely worked cases. “Not invited. He only knew Vega from the arson case.”
“What are you telling me, Em?” Kurt paused. “That you’re a target, too?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Emilia stared at the lights twinkling in the dark ocean as the unseen swimming dock bobbed. “The El Trio killer could be another cop. Someone on the inside who is being specific about their victims.”
“I can’t believe you waited to tell me, Em,” Kurt said, exasperation and sudden anger in his voice. “You live here. If you’re in danger, that means everybody in this hotel is in danger. I have to know things like this.”
Emilia bristled. “I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”
Kurt turned to look at the ocean again, elbows propped on top of the wall. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I wish you were invested enough in us . . . in this relationship . . . to tell me things when they happen. Not a week later. Because you’re thinking how things impact us. Not just you.”
Emilia concentrated on the pinpoints of light out in the bay. Why did they keep having the same conversation and why was it always so hard?
Kurt raised his eyebrows at her, clearly waiting for a response.
“I just . . . I don’t know,” Emilia floundered. “You’re talking about . . . commitment. But I’m in one world and you’re in another.”
“That’s not true, Em.”
“Take the people who were here tonight,” Emilia said. “They’re your colleagues. But we can’t even tell them I’m a cop or how we met because we don’t know who they’d tell.”
“Right now, I’m talking about you and me,” Kurt said. “Forget those other people.”
“They ask questions I can’t answer,” Emilia said.
“So we’ll figure it out,” Kurt said.
“Okay,” Emilia said. She didn’t have the energy to fight tonight. “I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” Kurt echoed, his anger spent.
He put his arms around her and Emilia pressed her cheek against his shoulder. “I won’t live scared,” she whispered.
“I won’t let you,” Kurt said into her hair.
They stayed quiet for a long moment on the darkened balcony, as the distant sounds of surf and strings sighed through the night breeze. Her strength came from being with him, in this oasis that he’d created. Some days it felt as if Acapulco was crumbling under the assault of the cartel and gang violence that saw multiple murders on the city’s streets every day. The tourist zone around the lip of the bay was so far immune to the chaos, but in Acapulco’s hilly inland neighborhoods, life was cheap and lost value every day. But up here, in his arms, it still mattered.
“Jacques said a funny thing tonight,” Emilia said.
“What was that?” Kurt asked. He drew back to look at her, but didn’t release Emilia from the circle of his embrace.
“That I was better for you than Suzanne.”
“Suzanne Kellogg?” Kurt blinked. “Jacques said that?”
“Yes.” Emilia gave a tiny smile. “Who’s Suzanne?”
Kurt’s face was unreadable. “An old girlfriend,” he said. “I knew her when I worked in Las Vegas. Before I moved to Mexico.”
“Was she special?” Emilia felt suddenly awkward asking the question. They’d skimmed over each other’s past relationships; the past wasn’t important amid the urgency of life in Acapulco.
Kurt kissed Emilia’s forehead. “For awhile.”
Emilia waited for more.
Kurt stepped away from her and picked up the empty brandy glasses they’d left on top of the wall. “Come on, Em. Let’s go to bed.”
☼
Emilia woke abruptly, seized with an unfamiliar feeling of dread. The bedroom was bathed in moonlight. She squinted to see the display on her cell phone, plugged into its charger and glowing faintly on the bedside table. It was 2:15 am.
Kurt’s side of the bed was empty. Emilia touched his pillow; it was no longer warm. The bedroom door was partially open.
The hall light clicked on. Emilia heard a muffled grind as the sliding door to the hall closet was pulled aside, followed by the scrape of hangers along the metal rod. Rattling noises ensued. Emilia pictured what was in the closet; two surfboards, tennis racquets, scuba and snorkeling gear, his bike helmets, boxes of winter clothes Kurt never wore.
After a few minutes, the closet door slid closed and the hall light went out.
Kurt came into the dark bedroom. He stopped at the end of the bed and looked around the room, as if it was unfamiliar. Emilia was on the verge of sitting up and saying something when he went to his dresser, a tall piece of furniture full of clothing folded to his precise specifications by the hotel laundry. A moment later he turned on the lamp and methodically combed through the top drawer where Emilia knew he kept odds and ends; cufflinks, a box of loose change, several different watches, the letters and photos his parents and siblings in the El Norte state of New York occasionally sent.
“Damn,” she heard him mutter. Kurt closed the drawer, switched off the lamp, and left the room.
Emilia got out of bed and found the old flannel shirt of his that she used for a robe. Getting it on over her nightshirt took concentration. Despite weeks of physical therapy her right arm was still stiff from the gunshot wound.
She went down the hall. The living room, furnished with leather sofas and scrubbed pine occasional tables, looked even larger now that the guests had gone. Pale stucco walls were illuminated by the night sky shining through the glass doors and framed by open white draperies.
Kurt was slumped on one of the sofas, elbows on knees, head in his hands.
Emilia snapped on a table lamp, suddenly afraid.
Kurt’s head popped up. There was an expression of desolation on his face Emilia had never seen before.
“What’s going on?” Emilia asked.
He ran a hand through his hair and that indefinable confidence came rushing back, reanimating his handsome features like water filling a glass. “Did I wake you up?” he asked.
Emilia sat next to him on the sofa, unsure of what she’d just seen. “Trouble sleeping?”
“Thought I’d get a snack,” Kurt said, with the feigned artlessness that Emilia had seen too many times across an interrogation table. “I didn’t eat much with all those people here.”
Emilia hesitated. If you’re hungry, why were you sitting here in the dark?
A phone shrilled from the bedroom.
“Yours or mine?” Kurt frowned.
Emilia stood up. “Mine.”
She walked to the bedroom, skirted the bed, and reached for the phone. It stopped ringing. Emilia checked the call log.
Silvio.
Best partner and worst enemy.
“Problem?” Kurt appeared in the open doorway.
“Silvio.” Emilia gave a grimace as she held up the phone. “No doubt he’s drunk and wants to gloat, the pendejo.”
“Tell me you bet with him,” Kurt said.
“He was offering really great odds.” Emilia hadn’t planned on telling Kurt about her little flutter on the Copa America match. “I put down 200 pesos. It was the smallest bet he would take.”
Before Emilia fought her way into the detectives squadroom, Silvio and then-partner Manuel Garcia Diaz had been involved in a shootout during a drug bust. Garcia was killed. Initially accused of setting up his partner, Silvio was suspended without pay during the investigation. To make ends meet, he became a bookie, running bets on boxing and fútbol, and kept the sideline going even when reinstated.
“Your partner is an illegal bookie,” Kurt said. “And you are aiding and abetting.”
“The entire police department is aiding and abetting,” Emilia said dryly. Everybody bet with Silvio. She tossed the phone back on the bedside table. “Do you still want that snack?”
“You said you were hungry.”
“Right. Sure.” Kurt smiled a little too widely. “I’ll make us something.” He disappeared down the hall.
Emilia went into the bathroom. Her stomach knotted as she washed her face. Kurt was the one whose life was an open book, the one who shared from the heart and pushed for commitment. She was the one who kept secrets and stalled when things got too serious.
But now, it seemed as if that dependable dynamic was gone. Something was wrong and Emilia didn’t know what it was.
She only knew that Kurt had lied to her for the first time.
Not sure why she was doing it, Emilia turned on all the lights as she returned to the living room. The dining room chandelier came to life and illuminated the doorway to the kitchen. The lights were already on in there, bouncing off the stainless steel appliances and glossy Italian cabinetry.
Two glasses of wine stood on the table. Kurt was busy topping chupata rolls with thin slices of jamón Serrano, tomato, and avocado. “One sandwich or two?” he asked as Emilia sat down.
“Just one.”
Kurt put the sandwiches on a talavera pottery platter and slid one of the glasses next to her hand. “Here you go.”
Emilia took a sandwich despite the tension in her stomach. “Second party of the day.”
“Just the kind of people we are.” Kurt touched his glass to hers.
“Is everything okay?” Emilia asked after a minute or two.
“As long as you’re okay, I’m okay.” Kurt poured them both more wine.
“I just―.” She was cut off by the distant ring of her phone.
“Yours again, Em.”
Emilia stood up. “If this is Silvio drunk and butt dialing me, I’m going to slay him.”
She stalked down the hall to the bedroom, torn between fury at Silvio and worry that her relationship with Kurt was washing away like sand in a storm. The phone’s ring was insistent. As Emilia hit the button to talk she saw that the caller wasn’t Silvio, but the central police dispatch desk.
“Detective Cruz,” Emilia answered.
“This is the desk sergeant from Dispatch reporting a home invasion.” The male voice on the other end of the line sounded tired.
“Why call me?” Emilia said, not bothering to mask her annoyance. “Get it out to the night duty unit for that neighborhood.”
“The caller asked specifically for you. Detective Emilia Cruz.”
Emilia lowered herself to the edge of the bed. The knot in her stomach tightened into a fist. “Okay,” she said. “Give me everything you’ve got.”
“Male caller. Couple minutes ago. Reported a home invasion. One victim. Female, 42 years old. Multiple gunshots to the upper chest. Claims she’s been dead less than four hours.”
“How would he know?”
“Didn’t say.”
And you didn’t ask. This sounded like the shooter calling to taunt the police. And he’d named her. Emilia felt sweat bead up on her forehead. “Location?”
The sergeant named a neighborhood known for poverty and violence. It was a combat zone full of street kids where gangs ruled at night and only one cop dared to walk.
She’d been there before.
Emilia found herself nearly doubled over, the phone still pressed to her ear. “Did the caller identify himself?”
“No. Just kept repeating a number. Said it was a badge.” The sergeant on the other end was getting testy with all her questions. “Said to call you and have you come. That neighborhood, we figured it was some sort of hoax. The captain here thought you should be aware. You got any enemies in that area?”
“Did you run the badge number?” Emilia demanded.
“No,” the sergeant said sulkily. “We can get somebody to do it in the morning, if you think it’s important.”
“Run it,” Emilia nearly shouted. “I’ll hold.”
She forced herself upright and held her breath as the clack of computer keys traveled through the line. Blood pounded in her ears and every nerve stretched to the breaking point.
Less than a minute later, the sergeant cleared his throat.
“We got a hit,” he said. “The badge belongs to Detective Franco Silvio.”
Chapter 2
The mayor’s conference room was as big as a parking lot. Small groups of men in twos and threes ranged on the periphery of the room, where brocade chairs and occasional tables encouraged intimacy. Or secrecy. Conversations were low and hushed.
The white jacketed waiter led Emilia to the vast table in the center of the room. He pulled out a chair and Emilia sat down. Next to a cup and saucer, a folded place card boasted her name. The waiter came back with a silver coffee pot. She thanked him, wondering if he knew that he’d just saved her life.
A couple of big swallows and much-needed caffeine began to make itself felt. Cookies were set out on the huge mahogany table. Between coffee and sugar, she just might stop feeling like a zombie.
She’d been up more than 24 hours and hardly remembered driving from the crime scene back to the Palacio Réal. There had been barely enough time to wash up, put on her one dressy suit, and make it to the mayor’s office in time for the task force meeting. Her eyes were swollen from the good cry she’d had in the shower, but Emilia was sure that with Carlota in the room, few would be looking at her.
Emilia took a handful of cookies and looked around. The table was ready for 20, with little place cards by each setting. Emilia wondered how many of those around the table would be members of the actual task force.
Although she’d been in the mayor’s chambers before, she’d never been in this particular conference room. A giant seal of the city of Acapulco, with a hand grasping stalks of wheat, filled the center of the far wall. The opposite wall was a gallery of dramatic photographs. Emilia recognized the cliffs at La Quebrada, the Fuerte San Diego, a cruise ship lit against a midnight sky, a view of Isla Roqueta at the southwestern lip of the bay.
The waiter refilled her cup. Several men took seats on the other side of the table. Coffee cups were filled as the men looked around as if they, too, had never seen the conference room. Emilia marked them as possible task force members.
Two men stayed in a corner by a carved sideboard. One wore a police uniform and was easily recognized by his trademark bald head, beaked nose, and the amount of gold braid on his shirt. Acapulco’s chief of police Rodrigo Salazar was in his late fifties. He was slim, fit, and testy.
The other man was Victor Obregon Sosa, the head of the police union for the state of Guerrero.
From their body language it was clear the conversation was terse. Obregon ended it with a jerk of his head, then wheeled around towards the conference table. Chief Salazar stalked out of the room.
The waiter came around again and Emilia gratefully accepted a third cup of coffee. A fresh plate of cookies appeared and she took two more, knowing that in another ten minutes she’d be hysterical from caffeine, sugar, and grief, but also still awake.
More people came into the room. A young woman in a fashionable black skirt suit took the seat next to Emilia. “Hello, I’m Claudia,” she said.
The woman’s place card read Claudia Sanchez Rangel. Emilia shook the proffered hand. “Detective Emilia Cruz.”
The woman’s eyes widened and she leaned closer. “Oh, I know,” she exclaimed breathlessly. Wavy chair streaked auburn by a skilled stylist fell over one shoulder. “I’ve been simply dying to meet you.”
Emilia was caught off guard by the reaction. Had she missed some sort of introductory message with biographies of the task force members? “Was there an email?” Emilia asked.
“Oh, no.” Everything Claudia said was delivered with childish excitement. “I just went to Carlota’s office and she told me.”
“Oh.” Emilia decided that Claudia was some sort of administrative assistant. She didn’t have the maturity or reserve usually found in a skilled investigator. Maybe she was a secretary and had informat
ion about the task force members. “Who else did she tell you about?” Emilia asked.
“I’m so excited to be working with you. May I call you Emilia?” Claudia took a sip of her coffee, making a guppy face to avoid smearing her dark red lipstick. Her nails matched her mouth. “Isn’t this the best coffee? We’ll have to have this kind in the office.”
Emilia smiled weakly but didn’t reply. Claudia reminded her of a rich teenager in her mother’s Sunday clothes. She might be pretty and expensively dressed, but she didn’t belong there.
The waiter filled Emilia’s cup again.
More people sat at the table. Emilia didn’t know any of them, but she would soon. They were the members of the El Trio task force. Despite sleep deprivation and images from last night that wouldn’t leave her head, Emilia felt her spirits rise. Or maybe it was just the coffee.
Obregon dropped into a seat across the expanse of polished mahogany tabletop and snapped his fingers to get the waiter’s attention. He looked at Emilia. “Long night, Detective Cruz?”
The head of the police union was dressed in his customary black, as if always building the mystique that powered his empire. Obregon had a network that reached throughout the state of Guerrero, much of it due to “businessmen” whose business was using law enforcement to best advantage.
Emilia knew that Obregon’s hands were dirty, but at the same time she’d seen him use his influence to save lives and attain justice. He was the mayor’s frequent escort, yet often made it clear to Emilia that sex was on offer. It was always best to walk carefully around him.
“Have you heard about Silvio?” she asked in reply.
“If you’re talking about your partner, everyone has heard,” Obregon said laconically as he accepted a cup of coffee from the waiter. “Silvio outdid himself this time. Of course, it was just a matter of time.”
Emilia didn’t understand what he meant, but before she could reply there was a small commotion by the door. Chief Salazar came in and held the door for Acapulco mayor Carlota Montoya Perez. The mayor walked through flanked by two bodyguards and followed by a staff of three men and two women, all dressed in dark suits. In contrast, Carlota strode across the room wearing a dark pink lace jacket with bracelet-length sleeves and a matching pencil skirt that skimmed the top of her calves. Jet black hair brushed her shoulders and framed the well-known face. Carlota’s makeup was so perfect as to be nearly invisible but Emilia knew no woman was that gorgeous without some help. Her age was a well-kept secret; Carlota was 25 or 50 or any age in between.